


Candy Canes and Firestarters

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crimes & Criminals, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dragon Mick, Dragon Riders, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hansel and Gretel Elements, Kid Barry, Kid Mardon, Len is So Done with Mislabeling, M/M, Magic, Witch Len
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6484852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Len and Mick are hunters, but they don’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts. If there’s a creature with a hoard or in possession of some valuable magical artifacts, they’ll kill them and take it. Unfortunately they’re regarded more as heroes to the human populace. But, thankfully, the supernatural community despises them.</p><p>This time, they come across two kids and a house made of gingerbread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candy Canes and Firestarters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [languageismymistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageismymistress/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a short, cute little Tumblr prompt for the bae. Now look what's happened.

The smell of burnt gingerbread fills the forest.

“Well, fuck me,” Mick says, “it really is a magic pedophile.”

Len rolls his eyes and quickens their pace. Soon enough, they reach a clearing where a life-size gingerbread house burns steadily to a crisp. As soon as he steps on the hardened sugar path, Len knows that he’s already done with this case.

This one’s not even a witch, either. She’s a  _sorceress_. The whole thing started out with mislabeling and complications. Does  _nobody_  understand the Harm None rule anymore?

And now Mick is just standing there, admiring the flames.

“ _Mick_ ,” he snaps, “we have to—”

The candy cane door bursts open in a wash of smoke. Two kids come barreling out, coughing and covered in soot. Neither of them could be older than twelve.

“Come on, Mardon!” cries one of them, a kid in a tattered shirt and pants, “All we gotta do is—hey!”

Oh great. He’s seen Mick and Len. Mick’s already grumbling.

The kid leads Mardon up to them, forcing them to stay in place and at least attempt some courteous way to tell ‘em to fuck off. When nothing immediately comes to mind, they’re then made to listen to the kids’ story. Which is just what they want, really.

Apparently the kid is named Barry Allen, his companion simply called Mardon. Mardon and his brother Clyde were abandoned in the middle of the forest by their parents. The witch— _sorceress_ , for  _fuck’s sake—_ lured them into her home with the sweets (Mick whispers “pedophile” and Len barely suppresses a smirk). She fattened Clyde up and stuck him in her oven.

Len winces. That’s why Mardon looks so miserable, then. Dammit, Len can relate, though; his dad left him and Lisa to a literal horde of dragons. It was only by the grace of Len’s knack for charisma that they survived at all.

Speaking of, Mick’s human nostrils are starting to blow smoke. He’s getting impatient as always. At least it shuts Barry up before he can continue his story, long enough for Len to finally get a word in.

“Look, kids,” he says, glancing at the house. They don’t have  _time_ for this; “We’re not here to rescue you. You wanna go to town, it’s that way,” pointing over his shoulder.

Barry’s eyes widen, lips forming a pout. Mardon squeezes his hand while curling into himself, as if he knew that help wasn’t coming.

Len purses his lips at the guilt simmering in his chest. “Congrats on killing ‘er,” he concedes, “made our job a whole lot easier.”

“But,” Barry says, “if you weren’t gonna rescue us, how come you came here to kill her?”

Mick’s back crackles. His wings are gonna start writhing from his skin soon. True to form, he snaps, “That’s none of your business. C’mon, Snart.”

Len nods; he’s told the kids which way to go. They walk around them without missing a beat, ignoring Barry’s stuttered protests.

Mick sheds his jacket, leaving it beside one of the huge lollipops on the side of the walkway. Len takes a moment to think about what his life has become.

Great wings of ruby red and topaz orange stretch out before folding so Mick can squeeze through the doorway. Len straps on his goggles and presses a cloth to his mouth. As soon as he’s inside, Mick wraps a wing around him, blocking most of the heat and smoke so he can breathe better. Len takes a few deep ones before nodding.

They separate. The house isn’t overly large, but there are quite a few nook and crannies hiding underneath the growing rubble. The longer they wait to take the priceless potions from their dead owner, the more magic and value they lose. They should’ve just flown here like Mick suggested—no, Snart, you made the right call. Didn’t know the sorceress was dead, would’ve seen you coming a mile away.

Still. In the heat of the moment, Len can’t help but have a few revisions.

He finds the hatch first. Taking a painful breath, he shouts, “Mick!” which turns into a bout of hacking coughs. He despises these kinds of jobs.

He’s just spitting out blackened saliva when Mick pulls their mouths together. The dragon’s great lungs both inhale and exhale oxygen, imperative for his fire-breathing. He shares that oxygen with Len now, holding his face in his hands as Len gulps down what air he can before those potions  _must_ be claimed.

As his rider breathes from him, Mick grasps the burning metal handle and throws open the hatch. The ozone scent of magic permeates from it. The familiar excitement of a good score fills both of them.

Len takes one last inhale before pulling back, replacing his cloth. He signals to Mick, who nods and holds up the large canvas bag. Next, he throws his legs over the side and jumps onto the ladder.

The cellar is clogged with magic. To an inexperienced human, it would be overwhelming, but Len’s merely a little intoxicated. He need only pull out his necklace, an orange gem pendant that glows dimly in the dark room, and feel it fluctuate between hot and cold.

He nods to Mick’s searching eyes. He’s fine.

Soon as Mick tosses down the bag, Len gets to work.

Shelves line the rectangular walls end to end, each one chock full of potions. There are a few charms and wands besides; has this sorceress killed witches too?

Feeling the instinctual pang of loss for his brothers and sisters, Len strides forward and collects their abandoned belongings first. He takes out a spool of tough string blessed by spring’s first rain and wraps it around each one. Under its protection, the dead witches’ things will not break or be sullied while in the bag.

That done, Len has a little look-see at the shelves. Oh wonderful, she actually labeled them. You’d be surprised how many magic users don’t label their fucking potions. 

Hm...ugh, a love potion. Perfect.

He knocks it from its place. When the bottle doesn’t shatter, a satisfied smirk curls his lips. A protection spell  _and_ labels. This sorceress was just begging to be robbed.

Quick as he can, Len reaches into his other pocket and unscrews the cap on a jar of icy water. Running his fingers through it, he feels the wonderful rush of his element before touching the potions he wants. As his magic comes into contact with the bottles, the liquid inside them glows brighter, acknowledging his ownership.

There are some beauties down here that’ll sell for a pretty penny. Along with them are rare ingredients and herbs that Len snatches for himself. Lisa will love the charms; personally, he’s one for potions and rituals.

Reluctantly, he takes the few love potions too. He doesn’t believe they actually work, but people will pay most anything for them. At any rate, Mick can sell them; Len would rather not stick his name to such a thing.

Mick grins when he sees how stuffed the bag is. He gives Len another breath, then they’re outta there.

And the fucking kids are waiting for them.

Mardon speaks at last: “If you were gonna rob her, you could’ve at least told us. We woulda helped.”

Len removes his goggles. Mick takes the bag while he reopens the jar and wets his throat. In no time at all, he’s spitting out what smoke he inhaled.

Mick replies to the kid, “Look like we needed it? Why’re you still here?”

Suitably cleansed, Len adds, “And why do I get the feeling you’re not gonna leave us alone?”

The children share a glance. Barry says, “Well, the witch—”

“ _No_ ,” Len interrupts sharply, “ _I_ am a witch. _She_ was a sorceress.”

Barry and Mardon scramble back. “Y-you’re a witch?!” Barry cries.

Mick flexes his wings. He’s probably offended they didn’t run away at the sight of them.

So Len says, “And my partner’s a dragon. You’re humans. Now that we’re all on the same page, I suggest you get out of our way and find some gullible family who’s always wanted sons.”

“Hey!” Barry pouts, “We’re not _fully_ human, you know!”

…oh?

Bracing his hands on his knees, Len leans forward so his and Barry’s faces are mere inches apart. “Then what are you?”

Barry crosses his arms. Before Mardon can so much as make a noise of protest, he retorts, “I’m a lightning-born and Mardon’s a sorcerer! He can control the weather!”

Len’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

Either that sorceress was incredibly lucky, or she knew exactly what she was manipulating into her claws. Straightening, Len feels Mick’s wing brush against his back.

They may not be the best with kids, but they gotta have a soft spot somewhere. Creatures as powerful as these are bound to get snatched again if they strike out on their own.

“You have a family?” Len asks Barry.

He doesn’t need an answer; the kid’s face says it all.

Right. Plan B then.

“We got a place,” Mick says.

* * *

 The biggest town near the sorceress’ former home is a bustling community that Mick and Len enjoy tremendously. Somehow, the citizens are the only humans they have yet to meet who see them as the criminals they are.

Unfortunately, Len and Mick can’t escort Barry and Mardon directly to Officer West’s house. Bag of artifacts and all that. They do, however, sneak into their home—an old factory in the bad side of town—with their goodies.

Len plants his new herbs along their windowsills, where many others grow. The bigger plants have a spot on the main floor, Mick having pulled up the boards to expose the soil.

As Mick lounges on his hoard of gems, Len climbs the stairs to the old director’s office, now his bedroom and study. After dressing into a fresh pair of clothes and washing his face of soot, he leans on the railing and calls to Mick.

The dragon, now in his original form, lifts his head. Len jumps on and is lowered back down.

The witch lays out the potions on one of the dusty conveyor belts, resolving to organize the charms and other artifacts for Lisa later. Mick likes to admire what they got after a job well done. Indeed, the dragon rumbles with pleasure as he sees how many valuable potions they’ve collected.

Exhaustion finally seeps into Len’s bones once all is said and done. Lisa will enjoy her gifts when she swings by tomorrow, having completed her own hunt along the coast involving a wraith and some _very_ grateful amateur necromancers. Now, Len, having retreated back up to his room, opens one of the office windows and announces he’s retiring early.

Mick’s great orange eye peers back at him, easily dwarfing Len. “We haven’t eaten yet,” he says, voice vibrating the panes.

Len’s mouth quirks. “You know where to find some unsuspecting livestock.”

“I said _we_ , you idiot.”

While having someone care about him is both strange and oddly nice, Len really doesn’t need this right now. “Mick—”

“You know how you get on jobs, Snart. I ain’t leaving ‘til I see you shove some rabbit food down your throat. You wanna keep me hungry over here?”

Len glares at him. Being trapped at seven with his mother turning into a wendigo turned him away from meat, yes, but he despises it when Mick calls his diet _rabbit food_. Just for that, he crosses his arms and counts to twenty.

At ten, Mick snarls, “Fine! Shove a _salad_ down your throat!”

Smirking, Len says, “Now was that so hard?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Oo, I just might leave the window open too.”

Mick’s vertical pupil dilates even though he growls. Len huffs and trudges from his room to the makeshift kitchen at the far corner of the walkway that makes the second floor. Mick follows his progress, neck extending as his head keeps apace.

Asshole.

Len snatches olive oil and romaine from the ice box and deliberately takes his time putting it all in a bowl. Mick’s scowl tightens the longer he’s forced to wait.

Finally, Len takes pity on him and starts eating. As soon as he takes the first bite, he’s thrown by how _hungry_ he is. Mick is right about his habits while on the job; he barely eats or sleeps while he plans everything to the second. Puzzles are one of the only things that drive him to distraction, if you could call it that when it’s his job.

As Len sets to making another bowl, Mick pokes him with his snout. They share a silent goodbye before the dragon’s exiting the factory, taking off in a great gust of wind.

Len forces himself to stay awake while he’s gone. Someone’s gotta watch the goods, after all. But Mick’s a skilled hunter and a messy eater; he comes back soon enough, licking blood from his talons. At least he remembered to wash his muzzle this time.

“Can I go to bed now, oh great dragon?” Len drawls, already punching his pillow to his satisfaction.

The flapping of smaller wings, and then Mick’s got his arms around Len, nuzzling his neck. Big meals always leave him feeling affectionate.

“You gonna answer my question?” Len asks.

In response, Mick snatches his pillow and pulls him once again from his room. Len, bleary with fatigue, just lets him have his way. He’s going to sleep whether he’s in bed or not.

Mick returns to his scales, rolling onto his back on top of his biggest pile of precious jewels. Len, now holding his pillow, allows himself to be lifted onto the dragon’s soft underbelly. It’s like stepping into a hot bath with a cushioned tub. After finding his balance, he walks to where Mick’s heart beats, vibrating under his aching feet.

With a pleased mumble, Len sets down his pillow and collapses onto it. Mick hums again, gently running a talon over his rider’s back, feeling his lungs expand without difficulty.

“I can breathe, Mick,” Len assures him. Mick still keeps the talon there until he falls asleep.

“Sleep well, Lenny.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify: Len's philosophy about the Harm None rule is he can retaliate if it's in self-defense, i.e. when he's fighting a creature for a job.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
